


Wish You Were Here

by vernie_klein



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Pre-Slash, semi canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vernie_klein/pseuds/vernie_klein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean laid on the cold, hard ground. Sam had been in the Cage for six months now. </p><p>And for six months, Dean has returned to the same spot to keep vigil.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>This is the story of Sam and Dean Winchester. Not the story we've seen played out on our television screens a million times, but the story of what happened to get them to where they are today. The story of two brother's souls, so tightly woven together, that neither can be whole.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sammy was Dean's. He really was.</i></p><p>(each story can be read independently of each other)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> I removed this from _Like the Heart Goes_ for a few reasons... One, I don't want to confuse anyone since this takes place at the end of Season 5/Beginning of Season 6. This is going to be 20th in the list of 40 works for _Like the Heart Goes_. Two, I do suggest that you read that series, but this works well as stand alone. Once I get there, this will be added back to the collective works and this note will be removed. If you are finding this for the first time, welcome. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This work was inspired by my love of Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. Two bands I grew up listening to. Wish You Were Here came on the radio, and this popped into my head.
> 
> The credit for Wish You Were Here goes to Roger Waters and David Gilmour. This song was very near and dear to my heart as I struggled (in 1995) with life at 17. I felt very much like Roger Waters did when Syd Barrett had to leave Pink Floyd. I think that even though Supernatural didn't touch on it, this is how Dean would have felt, for at least a time, after Sam went into the Cage.
> 
> This work is un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine. I didn't want anyone to see it before I posted. I hope that you enjoy.

**~~:-(o)Wish You Were Here(o)-:~~**

Dean sat on the cold ground. The frost came earlier this year. He closed his eyes and sighed. Six months. For six months, Dean came every day to this spot. The grass was worn flat, brown from repeated trampling. Dean was glad the snow never got too deep in Kansas. He didn’t know what he would do once the white stuff started to fly. 

Actually, Dean did know what he would do. He would come to this spot and sit, just as he had been doing every day after eating breakfast. He had a motel room in a shitty little hole in the wall a mile away. The owners had taken pity on him. On nights he couldn’t afford the rent, they let him sleep in the parking lot, a pile of blankets waiting in a box outside the office. Dean returned them every morning, and every night they were there, cleaned and ready for his use. A wrapped pb&j on top of the bundle. Dean appreciated the small gesture. 

He was lost; a bitter broken man had replaced the cocky, smirk-happy thirty-one year old. He was nothing. Not anymore, not after he lost everything that had ever meant anything to him. He was alone in the world. Bobby left after Dean refused to leave the Lawrence area. Castiel left after realising that Dean wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let his brother go. Dean didn’t care. 

Six months. The ache in Dean’s heart hadn’t lessened, the grief never let up. Dean sat and waited. What he waited for he didn’t rightfully know. Dean just knew that he would sit every day until his last day. He promised Sam he wouldn’t leave him again, so he won’t. 

The sky darkened and rain threatened the sky. Dean shivered from the cold breeze that flitted around the tombstones. He stood, not ready to leave, but not able to stay. He walked silently toward the Impala, opened the door and slid into the worn leather seat. Dean ran a finger over the passenger seat and closed his eyes. He wished Sam’s scent still lingered. All Dean could smell now was pain, suffering, and longing. The memories were bittersweet. 

He shook the memory from his head and dug the key out of his jeans pocket. Dean realised he should probably do some laundry. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was hunting anymore. The engine roared to life and Dean drove slowly from the cemetery, his eyes on the rearview mirror the entire time.

Dean pulled into the Sleepy Time Motel to picked up his blanket bundle. He scrunched his eyebrows as he approached the box. It appeared empty. As he moved closer, he saw there were two grocery bags inside. Dean wondered what he would do that night, it wasn’t bitterly cold, but he couldn’t risk running the Impala all night. Not if he needed to conserve the gas. Dean shook his head as he opened the first plastic bag. The owner’s wife must have been watching him. Inside was a foil wrapped tupperware container full of food. Dean frowned and realised it must have been Thanksgiving. There was a full meal; turkey and all the fixin’s. There was even a slice of apple pie in a second container. Dean set the food on the roof of the Impala and dug through the remaining contents of the bag. There was a new toothbrush and toothpaste, a deodorant stick, and 2-in-1 shampoo. He placed the bag on the front seat of Baby and turned back to retrieve the second bag from the box. Inside was a package of underwear and a bundle of socks. Dean was surprised that she had guessed the right size. There were two keys in the bag as well. One was a key to room 18, the room farthest from the office. The other was a key to the motel laundry. Wrapped around the tag was a single sheet of paper. He slid the stationary off the plastic and unfolded the note.

_Dean, I am sure that all of the words in the world aren’t going to make a difference right now, but I thought we could offer you some comfort. I don’t know what has happened in your life to cause such sorrow. I know you lost your brother, but sometimes, looking at you, it appears that you’ve lost so much more. It’s Thanksgiving. A time for thanks… I’m sorry, Dean. Sorry that you have no one to share this time with. Sorry that you lost your world. Know that we are here for you. Even if we don’t know everything. We will still be here. The keys are yours. I can’t in good conscious allow you to sleep outside in your car anymore. The weather is getting colder, and even though Kansas isn’t Wisconsin, it’s still too cold. There is soap in the laundry for your clothes. We will make sure you are left alone._

_Take comfort in knowing that in your time of need, there are people who care, Dean. We can’t replace what you have lost, but we will offer what we can. I know that you won’t take us up, but you may join us for breakfast in the mornings if you choose. Just remember that the offer stands._

Dean wiped away a single tear and refolded the note. He placed it in the bag with the clothes and grabbed the food from the roof. Dean drove to the other side of the building and parked in front of his new room. He towed open the door and took in his surroundings. This room was nicer than the one he normally rented. A small kitchenette was tucked away in the corner with a table and two chairs. There was a single queen bed and a pull out loveseat. Dean quickly moved everything from the Impala into the room. He debated washing his clothes that night or worrying about it in the morning. Dean decided that a shower was the most pressing matter at hand. 

He stripped his jeans and overshirt, throwing them in the hamper conveniently placed by the bathroom door. Dean climbed in the shower and marvelled at the water pressure. This motel was impressive in that there seemed to be an endless supply of hot water. Dean took his time, sluicing the dirt of the last week off his body. He shut the water off, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Dean quickly brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He didn’t bother to glance at his reflection in the mirror, not wanting to see the man that stared back at him. Dean crawled into bed naked and fell quickly into a fitful sleep.

Dean woke, reheated the Thanksgiving meal and dressed in his cleanest clothes. He glanced at the alarm clock by the bedside. 4:30. Still early enough that he wouldn’t run into the owners while he did laundry. He walked down the sidewalk, a duffle slung over his shoulder. He unlocked the door and made quick work of starting the washing machine. Dean pushed the folding table against the wall and hopped on top. He crossed his legs at the ankles and closed his eyes. Dean tried to catch another hour of shut eye, but his brain wouldn’t let him. Dean jumped down and took off toward his room. 

Dean unlocked the room, grabbed his beat up guitar case and headed back to the laundry. He switched out the clothes and flipped open the locking tabs on the case. The prevailing scent of wood and leather overwhelmed his senses momentarily. Dean took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring slightly before he plucked the guitar from its resting space. He quickly tuned the battered instrument and plucked a few lines of The Weight. Dean closed his eyes and strummed the opening lines of Memphis Minnie’s original version of _When the Levee Breaks_ , halfway through the first verse he switched to the more familiar version by Led Zeppelin. Zeppelin’s version was more in tune with how Dean felt. Tears ran silently down his cheeks into his scruffy beard. He blinked them away as fast as they fell, his fingers sliding on the steel strings. 

Dean shuddered and set down his guitar. After Sam went into the cage with Lucifer, Dean quit hunting. He no longer felt the need to travel. His world revolved around a piece of grass, ten feet around, in the middle of a cemetery. Dean ventured into Lawrence twice. The first time to pick up supplies he couldn’t get in the tiny town surrounding Stull. The second trip was to the pawn shop where he acquired the guitar. He had learned years ago at Sonny’s Home. It took some getting used to again, but Dean figured it was just like riding a bike. Not that he had ever had a bike to ride, but he figured the analogy held true in this case. 

Dean tried not to think of Sam. Most days he found himself silent. There was nothing to say if his brother wasn’t right next to him. Half the time he caught himself starting a sentence about something going on, only to realise that he was alone in the Impala. Dean refused to use his voice unless necessary. He had only spoke to the motel owners a few times. They knew about his brother, probably from Bobby. Bobby had stayed with him for a few weeks at the motel after Sam disappeared. He had no qualms with speaking to strangers. He had told them about Sam dying, being buried in the cemetery at Stull, how Dean had no one else. Just an old drunken Uncle and a distant cousin. Dean knew this way they wouldn’t question if Castiel showed up from time to time. Not that Dean had seen him at all since that day. 

Dean continued his daily tradition. For three more months he ate a meager breakfast and drove to the cemetery. The motel owners continued to place food and supplies outside of their office for him. Sometimes, he caught a glimpse of the owner’s wife in the office window. She always waved, a look Dean took as pity on her face. He never took them up on their offer of breakfast. 

**~~:-(o)Wish You Were Here(o)-:~~**

Dean nestled into his spot on the hard ground. February had been a particularly cruel month. The ground was frozen solid. It had snowed overnight and a light dusting had settled over on the dead grass. He removed his guitar from the case and strummed a few chords. The sun was shining on his patch of earth, the rays warming his pale skin. Dean turned his face to the Heavens, and offered up a silent prayer. He closed his eyes and plucked a few notes.

 _So, so you think you can tell.. Heaven from Hell… Blue skies from pain_ Dean sang sweet and low.  
_Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?_  
_A smile from a veil?_  
_Do you think you can tell?_

 _Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?_  
_Hot ashes for trees?_  
_Hot air for a cool breeze?_  
_Cold comfort for change?_  
_Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?_ Dean choked as tears rolled hot and heavy down his cheeks.

 _How I wish, how I wish you were here._ Dean stopped momentarily and ran his sleeve over his face.  
_We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,_  
_Running over the same old ground._  
_What have we found?_  
_The same old fears._  
_Wish you were here._ Dean whispered the last line.

“Wish you were here.” Dean set the guitar next to him and laid down on the cold grass. He placed one ear on the ground. Dean knew that he wouldn’t be able to hear anything, but everyday he listened. For nine months Dean listened.

“Dean…” A voice carried through the cemetery. Dean blinked. Great. Now he was hallucinating. “Dean… What are you-” The sound of running reached Dean’s ears. He sat up and blinked his eyes open. Dean gasped. Sam was running across the hardened earth, looking no worse for wear. 

“Sam?” Dean cried. He pursed his lips and stood, his legs shaky, as if he had been the one buried for the last nine months. Dean watched his brother approach. Tears streamed unabated down his face. Dean bit his bottom lip as his brother traversed the final steps and stopped inches from his face.

“Dean.” Sam offered up as a prayer. Dean nodded as Sam grabbed his face and brought their lips together. The kiss was sweet, a mere meeting of skin, but to Dean, it was everything. A coming home. A promise. Hope.


End file.
